


The Naive Type

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [170]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, Drunk Sex, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 12:42:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16305443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Captain America's missing. It's Tony's job to find him.





	The Naive Type

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts: One night stand and Private investigator AU. Prompts from this [generator](http://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator).

It’s not Tony’s fault that the guy’s gorgeous, that he has eyes that’d stop a train in its tracks. Dark hair, too, just this side of too long, and a habit of sweeping it out of his face in this careless, insolent way that Tony’s sure the guy’s practiced--while staring in a mirror, probably, smirking as he thinks about all the old mooks he’ll be able to roll with that gesture, with a flash of those perfect white teeth.

It’s not Tony’s fault either that he’s had a few too many; that he’d gone out looking for this guy when the world was a little too sideways, the night blurred at the edges like a painting left out in the rain. This case--this fucking case--it’s sucking the life out of him, draining not only his bankroll but his sanity: Captain America is missing and the feds are trying to keep it quiet and if Tony doesn’t find him in the next 72, Uncle Sam is coming for his head. And the fat retainer they paid him for his discretion, his speed, his--how had their Miss Carter put it? Oh yes: _his innumerable talents and skill_.

Little did they know (or maybe that did?) that said talents include downing half a flask of whiskey after dinner without breaking a sweat. It was the second half that made him blotto.

And then the call had come. The man he’d been sniffing out for two days had finally showed up at his favorite haunt, the one place everybody who knew him swore that he could always be found: a bar called _Les Jeux_  out near the docks and so, by hook or by crook, Tony was gonna haul his ass across town to corner the guy and finally get him to spill. That was the plan.

Except in his swimmy state, he hadn’t accounted for the guy--Barnes, James. B--to have a plan of his own. Especially one that involved him being beautiful, smokey eyes and an open collar and a tendency to stare at Tony’s mouth when he spoke, like he was dying to see each and every letter form and die on Tony’s lips.

“We grew up together, yeah,” he says from behind his gin and tonic. “And before this whole Army business, I’ve have told you we were best friends.”

“Before?” Tony says, trying to hike his voice over the musical stylings of an overly enthusiastic pianist. “What, you don’t approve?”

“Of Steve signing up to be a dancing monkey? No, Mr. Stark. I do not.”

“What he’s doing is important. He means a lot to uh, a lot of people, they say.”

Barnes leans closer, one elbow pitched on the bar. “He’d rather be in Europe punching Nazis for real than running around the country like a star-spangled clown. That I can tell you for sure.”

“I’m sure they’d let him if he asked.”

A slow blink, another long sip of gin. “It’s funny,” Barnes says. “You didn’t strike me as the naive type, Mr. Stark.”

“Tony. I don’t--I’d rather you call me Tony.”

“Tony,” Barnes says delicately, turning the word over on his tongue. “Hmmm. It suits you.” He tugs at Tony’s wrinkled tie and runs his fingers over one weatherbeaten lapel. “Better than your get up, I must say.”

“It’s been a long day.”

Barnes’ fingers are cool, a little damp from his drink, and they linger. “Has it?”

“Yeah. Your friend’s AWOL act is running me ragged.”

“Hmmm. You need something to take the edge off, is that it?”

Something in Tony’s gut flutters, like he’s swallowed a jar of butterflies. “Truth be told, I’ve been trying all night and nothing’s made a damn difference.”

Barnes chuckles. “You’ve been drinking. That’s not trying. That’s opening up and hoping the abyss will come in.” He touches the thin strip of skin poking out above Tony’s shirt collar, a quick press of two fingers. “There are other ways, you know.”

“Like what?”

“Like...I could call my friend Betty over. That blonde over there, see? She’s a real nice girl. She can take you in the back and make you forget your troubles for a little while.” He grins. “Or a long while, depending on your preference.”

Oh, Tony’s pickled brain thinks helpfully. _Oh_.

“No, no, Mr. Barnes. I mean, I appreciate the offer, it’s just--”

Barnes’s thumb paints his jaw and sends a thousand hungry sparks up and over his skin. “Hmm? Just what?”

Tony looks the guy square in the eye. “I’m not in the mood for a Betty tonight.”

Which is how he ends up in a backroom--a storeroom, Barnes tells him between kisses, a secret space left over from Prohibition--with his pants around his ankles and his back against the wall and Barnes’ hand squeezing them both, jerking and sliding and god, what Tony wouldn’t give for some Vaseline or some good ol’ KY.

“Yeah?” Barnes spits in his mouth, his voice slurred by pleasure, by the sweep of Tony’s tongue. “You like that?”

Tony tugs at the guy’s hair, yanks it out of its neat Brylcreem lines, and arches his hips into that sweet devil of a fist. “If you’ve gotta ask, Barnes, that means you’re doing it wrong.”

Barnes laughs and jacks them both harder, his breath coming hot and fast. “You’re about to come all over my dick,” he says. “I think you’ve earned the right to call me Buck.”

“Buck, huh?” Tony clutches at the guy’s perfect ass. “Not Jimmy or James?”

“Fuck no. Bucky.”

“Is that what Steve calls you?”

Barnes bit Tony’s lip, none too nice, and growls: “Yes.”

“What? You don’t want to talk about Steve now?”

Bucky hissed and Tony could feel the guy’s cock jump, the spurt of wet from the tip.

“Wait,” Tony says, his last two brain cells firing up. “No. No, you want to think about Steve when you’re jerking me off, don’t you? Is that what’s gonna put you over the hump? Huh? Thinking about Captain America while you play with your cock?”

Bucky makes a hot, wounded sound and leans into him, crushes Tony against the wall and works them faster. “Shut _up_. Shut the fuck up, Stark!”

Ah, god, Tony thinks with a groan, at last: the first sunlight in ages. So they're more than friends, aren't they, more than just old buddy, old pals. Hell, the gods of fools and private dicks have blessed him at last; it's the first hint he's found of anything useful, anything that might actually lead him to the whereabouts of Steve Rogers, the star spangled king.

He digs his nails into the back of Bucky’s neck. “You’re about to come on my cock,” he says, way too loud. “I think you’d better call me Tony. Unless you’d rather just straight up call me Steve.”

Bucky moans like he’s been shot through the heart and there’s heat everywhere, the smell of spunk, and a needy, knowing rut as Tony’s hand catches what Buck can no longer hold and picks up the last few desperate strokes and then Tony’s coming, too; quick furious spurts that make him feel divine and stupid and more clear-headed than he’s been in a week. Yeah, this Barnes guy may have been a pain in the ass to find, he thinks, but by god, he’d been worth the wait.

Barnes’ mouth finds his and they kiss again, slower this time but deeper, slick hands sliding under each other’s jackets, between buttons, plucking at the hints of bare flesh.

“So,” Tony says when he can speak again, when his lips are ready for something other than another scorching kiss. “Let’s try this again, Buck. When’s the last time you saw Steve Rogers?”


End file.
